Fill My World
by s1ncer1ty
Summary: Two former Gundam pilots. A drive in the rain. A chance to define a new life, a new love. Shounen-ai contained within.


Untitled Document

"Fill My World"  
by s1ncer1ty  
  
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*A/N: This is actually a scene from a yet-unfinished fic that I'm in the process of completing. However, I think it could easily stand alone as its own little fic. Also, it's told from a different character's perspective, in a different style of writing. You could consider it a teaser for the full story (which I hope to complete this weekend), if you wanted.  
As I wrote this, I wondered to myself -- which character is putting up more of a mask? (I dunno, just a random thought to consider.)  
Definitely shounen-ai. You should be able to figure out the couple. Flamers will face the wrath of _Shinigami._  
It's set about a year after the whole war thing. Please note that I haven't seen "Endless Waltz," so some parts may stray a bit from canon GW. Don't hate me too much for it. *

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You'd think in this day and age one could find a car with a defrost system that actually works. No, instead, I'm forced to keep leaning forward while I'm driving to wipe the fog that just won't let up from the front window. Of course, the rain doesn't help the visibility any, nor do the lights from the oncoming cars that streak past us. I'm sure _their_ defrost systems work _perfectly._

You try to help out by wiping the sleeve of your shirt across the windshield while I attempt to keep from getting creamed, but I realize too soon that it's not going to do anything more than distract me. Thin wisps of your hair, propelled by the breeze from the open window, scatter before my eyes, and the clean scent from your body so close to mine merely permeates my thoughts. Too distracting. In typical _Shinigami_ fashion, I mask my discomfort with a joke and shift my body closer to the wheel, hoping my pants are loose enough to disguise what could very well become an embarrassing situation.

"I wonder if this is what it was like when the _Titanic_ sank," I say, lips curling in a tight grin. "I'm expecting to drive straight into an iceberg."

"Huh?" you reply in that soft, honest voice of yours. "You won't drive into an iceberg."

"Figure of speech," I state flippantly.

You nod and wipe at your side of the windshield with the edge of your sleeve. I dart my eyes from the road for a brief moment to look at the hollow of your shoulderblade, visible through the stretched neck of your shirt.

Finally, even you give up on hoping to see anything with the blasted defogger broken. Without a word, you unbuckle your seatbelt and roll down the window -- and before I know it, you've hoisted your body halfway out the window and are sitting on the edge. One hand clasps the roof, while the other holds fast to the inside seat. Your hair flies back, immediately whipped into a damp frenzy by the torrent of rain.

You know what you're doing -- you're a trained acrobat, after all -- but it still makes me nauseous with worry.

"What are you doing?" I remark when I'm finally able to swallow past my heart, which has rammed itself up firmly into my throat and is threatening to choke me.

Exactly six seconds later (I've been counting), you fall back into your seat and swipe an arm across your wet eyes. Your hair hangs in sodden clumps across your forehead, permitting a coy peek at the eyes normally shaded by the fringe. "There's a dirt road coming up," you state calmly. "On your right. Turn there."

"Aye aye, cap'n," I reply. I slow down and pull into the shoulder, bringing the car to a crawl until I manage to find the road you mention, nearly obscured by the tangle of forest.

On go the high beams, and the car struggles down the nearly abandoned dirt road, kicking up wet sprays of orange clay that soak the back window. Perfect, now I can't see in front of me _or_ behind me. At least the dirt hasn't become so saturated that we might get stuck in the mud, though I doubt I'd complain if we did. You'd look so perfect with the wet clay soaking through your jeans...

As we traverse the road, the path becomes visibly narrower, until the car can barely squeeze through. We begin scratching loose vines, saplings, underbrush. When a low-hanging branch nearly takes out the driver's side mirror, I pull the vehicle to a stop, and I mutter to myself about how the _hell_ I'm going to turn this thing around to get out.

"This road isn't taking us anywhere," I say.

"It has," you reply, your voice filled with soft contentment. You close those unreadable green eyes of yours and lean your head back against the seat, listening to the rain as it breaks through the ceiling of trees to patter across the hood of the car.

I try to hold out. I try to be quiet for your sake. You look so peaceful, so at home. The others had said you'd changed -- that you'd walked away from your former mercenary lifestyle and were trying to live as normally as possible. When I see the dark circles beneath your eyes, I know that, even though the war has been left behind, you still live it every day. _Don't we all, though?_

Without having to say it, I realize that this is what you fought for -- this is what you've always wanted. _Quiet._ In these moments, I feel close to you. At this time, the one foot distance between us is too much. Yet how can I bring myself to intrude upon your peace?

If only to save my own sanity, I throw the car door open and swing my feet outside. I hear a slight intake of breath as you turn towards me -- I know without having to turn around that you're looking at me. Swiftly, I unlace my heavy boots and fumble off my socks, setting them on the floor behind the driver's seat. I roll up the ends of my pants before dropping my feet into the cold puddle of mud and pebbles, shivers running up my spine as I leap into the rain.

I have to laugh -- sometimes, it's all I have to fall back upon -- and I howl into the night's sky, letting the rainwater stream down my cheeks to replace the tears I haven't been able to cry since the end of the war. The chill makes me feel alive, so alive, and I leap atop the hood of the car and clamber to the roof. My dirty feet leave red tracks across the dark paint.

You slip from the window, not bothering to open the door, and hoist yourself to my side. The rain weighs your hair down heavily, and I feel the spray of water as you flick your bangs from your eyes.

"You're going to get sick," you murmur.

I shake my head quickly, beaming a wide grin in your direction. _"Shinigami_ never gets sick!"

"Mm." You don't protest, and from the roof of the car you stare up into the ceiling of the forest. The headlights provide scant illumination -- blackness surrounds us, like the void of space.

More silence. Our legs are inches apart, as we've shifted to the center of the roof. You wrap your arms lightly around your knees, and I pull my legs up Indian-style. I watch you -- your eyes are closed again to take in the sound of the rain as it falls through the trees. Your chin tilts lightly up, and you take no heed of the water shimmering through your hair, ending in visible droplets at the tips before sliding into the night.

I can't help myself -- I slide my body closer to yours, wincing at the pop of the hood as the metal re-settles. You don't seem to notice the noise or the brush of my leg against your own. When I loop my arm across your shoulders, you remain relaxed, yet still as a marble statue. For long, unnervingly silent moments, we sit close as the rain pours around us in a neverending torrent.

I hear you hiss in a light breath, and slowly I open my eyes. You tilt your head towards mine, and I lean my forehead to yours.

"But..." you whisper, your voice barely audible.

"It's okay," I murmur in return. Your lips are so close, so pink and inviting. I nuzzle my nose against your cheek, and you lean into my caress.

"Who do you want me to be?" you whisper suddenly.

I draw away and stare at the shadows of your face, your eyes still unreadable. "What do you mean?"

"Who do you want me to be?" you repeat. Then, you add, just as calmly as ever, "Do you want me to be Trowa Barton? Or would you rather I be Heero?"

I shake my head quickly, sliding my arm from your shoulders. It's only then that I feel them stiffen. "Why would I want you to be Heero?" I ask incredulously. Why do people always think I ever wanted to be with him in the first place?

You shrug, and your wet hair tumbles before your eyes, as if you're purposely trying to hide behind them.

"I don't want you to be Heero."

"Then...?" Your voice is shy, uncomprehending.

"I want you to be you," I murmur, returning my hand to your shoulder. Remembering the name you asked me to call you earlier, I add, "I want you to be Triton Bloom."

Your eyes meet mine, and I'm drawn into their green depths, so suddenly tinged with emotion -- sadness, desperation, confusion. "I don't know how."

Then recognition clicks. You've been a performer all your life -- during the war, you hid behind a _doukeshi_ mask and another man's name. Even after the war, when you stayed at the circus upon earth, you continued to put on the act of another character. You've never had the chance to fully heal. You've never been _you._

With a soft touch, I push aside the bangs that you've been hiding behind and tuck the soaked strands behind an ear. "Tell you what," I murmur, ever ready to strike that deal with the devil -- or with an uncharacteristically vulnerable young man. "Why don't you forget what I want. Tell me what it is you want."

"What I want?" Your eyes stare straight into mine, perplexed at the question.

"Yes," I reply, nodding firmly.

"I -- I want --" You struggle at first, but something is there. Something _has_ to be there.

"What is it?" I whisper.

A cool hand slides over mine, and your lips work as you try to choke out the words. I see your shoulders jerk as you take two gasping breaths, and you thrust your face into mine, our lips meeting in a rough kiss. I wrap a hand around the back of your head, holding you firmly as I part my lips to your urgings, feeling the darting caress of your tongue. I whimper involuntarily, and I feel the muscles in your neck stiffen. Comfortingly, I stroke my fingertips across the base of your neck, and you relax.

When you pull away, your expression is stoic -- yet I can also see from the reflection of the car's headlights a small tinge of pinkness in your cheeks, the inviting pout of your lips. Most of all, the initial confusion in your eyes has been replaced by a glimmer of content. All at once, you look both strong and porcelain-vulnerable.

I have to laugh, to release the tension. "See? It didn't kill you," I joke.

You nod, and I take your hand in mine, lightly stroking your fingertips with my thumb. We sit quietly, listening to the rain that falls through the trees.

After a long while, you speak, your voice a painful whisper: "I don't suppose ... we could do that again?"

I smile, though this time it's not out of nervousness -- I'm elated. But I must be gentle. You're still healing. You're still trying to discover who Triton Bloom truly is.

The words that come out are a joke, but you know the intent behind them. I know you do. "Your wish is my command, _koi."_

Your cheeks flush, hot despite the chilling rain that surrounds us, and I catch you in my arms, feeling you -- feeling Triton Bloom -- fill my world. 


End file.
